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Dazai has one mission. One mission and that is to assassinate Mark Twain.
For work as intense as Dazai’s, there are rules to follow that are simply undebatable. You don’t question, you don’t argue. You make sure they’re engraved in your brain and you parrot them to yourself until they’re the only words that occupy your head. For your own good.
The first, know your target. Twain is nothing more than another rich man on Dazai’s hit list full of other rich men. He’s the same age as Dazai, twenty-two, and he’s already a millionaire. He didn’t, however, have to lift a single finger. He merely had to ask his father for the cash and it was handed to him—but who is Dazai to judge where people’s money come from? His comes from murder. It doesn’t matter. Everyone has blood on their hands somehow.
The next, know the area. Twain’s house is big. He has guards all over the place, along with other people who clean and cook for him. Other than that, he lives alone. The living room is where he stays in the most—if you could still call it that. His couch that’s probably worth more than ten cars is where he ends up sleeping at night. He has twelve bedrooms and they’re only put to use when his friends come over. Dazai knows his way in and out, so it should be easy to put a knife in Twain’s chest when he’s busy watching on the television.
The last, know yourself. The mission is to be done within the next three days after it’s given. If you even feel the tiniest hint reluctance or fear, do not do it just yet. If you think you are not fit to take out a particular target, request a different one. If you have a style or signature, make sure it doesn’t fuck up a mission. Dazai usually goes for something that has the least complications, unless he feels like otherwise. In the end, he draws a heart on a piece of paper with his red lipstick and leaves it next to his target’s dead body.
And there he is. He easily made it inside after asking Fyodor—his ex-boyfriend if that matters—to hack the security system in Twain’s house. He walked straight past the gates after entering in a code and maybe he had to take down one of the guards for noticing him but that’s irrelevant.
He’s waiting for Twain. Patiently. So patient that he’s doing his makeup in front of the mirror in Twain’s bedroom. He didn’t have time to do it earlier because he was in a rush, or so he would tell anybody who asks.
He even ate a couple of chocolates that sat on top of the drawers next to the bed, kept cool by the air conditioner. He noticed how Twain doesn’t have any windows in his bedroom. Well, he knew that—but he had to see it for himself. He may be an assassin, but he’s not this horrible.
Who doesn’t have windows in their bedrooms?
“You can’t do a double suicide alone,” Dazai sings quietly with a soft smile on his face, brushing his hair. It’s a little past shoulder-length now. He loves it this way.
He takes out some lipstick to finish off the look, applying it carefully as he watches it paint his lips red on the mirror. When he’s done, he presses his lips to even the color. Then, he sings more, slightly louder than before, “But you can do it with two people.”
He laughs to himself before putting his things back to the small bag he’s carrying. He doesn’t usually carry bags—it gets in the way and is frankly unnecessary—but this is a special occasion. By special occasion, he means that the golden chain straps of the bag look perfect with his outfit.
Outfit. His outfit, like always, is all black. He only wears black just in case things get messy, but he still tries to keep a little bit of fashion at least. Today, he’s wearing a cutout lace-up bodycon dress. The sleeves are absent, exposing his bandaged arms, but his hands are gloved up until the forearms. He’s also wearing matching boots with heels. He’s not supposed to wear heels, although not explicitly stated as a rule—but he was warned. And he never listens.
He continues to hum the tune of the song he made up as he plays with the knife. He sits on the bed and takes another chocolate. It’s small and has a golden wrapping. He throws it in is mouth and chews slowly, letting the creamy taste of the chocolate fill his mouth. It’s his favorite type of chocolate. One with almonds and toffee. He could stay there forever. He takes a lollipop next, unwrapping it, before—
Click.
Was that the sound of the door? The assassin turns around, knife in hand, and sees a gun pointed at him. Maybe he got a little too comfortable. He didn’t hear the door open.
The one holding the gun is, of course, Twain himself. There Twain is with a gun and Dazai with a mere knife. Obviously, if Dazai is lucky, he could get out of this alive—but in no possible outcome will Twain get out alive.
“Enjoying yourself?” the redhead has the nerve to casually ask with a smile.
“I was,” Dazai answers anyway, dropping the wrapping on the floor, “but you just had to interrupt.”
“Not even curious how I knew you’re here?”
“I don’t really care,” he takes a taste of the lollipop for the first time before pulling it out with a pop, “it doesn’t affect my plans much.”
“I think you’d want to hear it,” Twain says as he puts the gun behind him and it finally hits Dazai that his target’s shirt was unbuttoned all the way. The audacity. Dazai will stab him right in that open spot. “I know who you are.”
“Your future murderer?”
“The demon prodigy.”
The assassin doesn’t respond and Twain takes it as an invitation to continue, “You’re here as a mistake. You’re supposed to kill my dad. I hired you.”
“The system doesn’t make any mistakes.”
“That would be true but,” Twain takes out his phone, unlocks it, and shows the screen to Dazai, “Fitzgerald contacted me himself.”
The fact that Twain knows the name is enough to convince Dazai, but he doesn’t show that. He walks closer to the phone, eating the lollipop, and reads the words on the screen.
Get out of there. The handler got the address wrong and Dazai Osamu is on his way to your house. No number of bodyguards can protect you. I apologize for this, but you and your father share the same name and the form you’ve submitted was not processed successfully. We cannot reach Dazai when he begins to move. Please understand for your own safety.
“How do you know Fitz?”
Twain puts the phone back to his pocket, “I have a lot of connections.”
Dazai pushes him hard against the wall, catching him off guard, and he feels the cold metal of the knife against his throat. He doesn’t move and Dazai laughs, lollipop still in his mouth, “It doesn’t matter. The payment first policy ensures that no matter who’s killed in the process, I still get paid. I’ll kill you then your dad.”
Twain swallows, looking straight into Dazai’s eyes but he doesn’t say a word. The knife is so sharp he can already feel a little blood dripping down his neck. The assassin draws it back, but still keeps his arm against Twain’s chest to keep him in place.
“Why didn’t you get out when you were told to? Were you so cocky about your connections you felt confident enough to be alone in a room with me?”
“I was hiding in a safe room.” For some reason, the redhead’s eyes dropped to Dazai’s lips. “I have cameras installed that aren’t easily broken into. They’re there as if they don’t exist. I watched you walk your way into my house. And I watched you sing in this room.”
Dazai furrows his brows and steps away from Twain, “Creep.”
“You’re one to talk. Don’t you think you owe me?”
“I’m just doing my job,” he scoffs, “and I’m the one letting you go. You owe me.”
“Sir Twain?” there’s a loud, rather panicked yell of a man outside the door followed by booming knocks.
“I’m here,” Twain calmly responds as he licks his lips before unlocking the door. It slams open and one of Twain’s guards stood with a gun pointed in the room. When he sees Dazai and the knife in his hand, the man’s finger moves to the trigger. The assassin only smiles before Twain commands, “Put the gun down.”
“There’s—a maid found a body in one of the rooms and—and we found out the cameras have been tampered with—”
Dazai shoots—spits—the lollipop stick towards the guard and lets out a low whistle, “So slow.”
There’s a burning resentment in the man’s eyes when he looks at Dazai, “You’re not getting out of here—”
“I said put the gun down, didn’t I?”
The man’s brows smash together in confusion but follows the order anyway. Twain turns to Dazai and simpers, “Are you hungry?”
“What?”
The question comes from the guard, not Dazai, and the redhead slams the door on his face. Twain diverts his gaze to assassin again—and asks again, “Are you hungry?”
“Are you offering me dinner?”
“I owe you, don’t I?”
“Creep.”
Dazai opens the door to leave but is met with multiple guards this time, who pointed their guns at him in instinct. He frowns, “What? Are you threatening me into having dinner with you?”
“Leave him alone and tell everybody I have a guest,” Twain firmly tells the men. He’s not mad, but he seems slightly irritated to their confusion. They don’t question it, only very hesitantly leaving the two to continue their conversation. “Was that a no, though?”
“I was hungry but I’ve lost my appetite.”
“Sure, because you didn’t just eat all my sweets while waiting to kill me.”
“If you want dinner with me, Twain,” Dazai steps out of the bedroom, “you have to deserve it.”
“Nearly getting murdered isn’t enough?”
“You wouldn’t deserve it even until death.”
“Ouch,” Twain chuckles, his eyes not so subtly checking Dazai out, “but you may be right.”
“I always am.”
“And here I was trying to get you to be into me.”
“Are you into me?” Dazai raises a brow, “Because that’s fucking weird. You fantasize about assassins or something?”
“I just think you’re beautiful.”
The assasssin’s face turns into a faint color of red and this time, it’s Twain’s turn to raise a brow, “You’re—”
He scowls, his face slowly burning even more, “Don’t.”
The redhead blinks, lips parting, and it takes several moments before he bursts out laughing, “You’re weak for compliments.”
“I’m just not used to them, okay?” he exclaims, stomping his foot on the floor.
Twain tilts his head, “That can’t be true.”
“Just shut up,” he huffs, “and fine. I am hungry—but I want something specific.”
“What is it?”
“Boiled crabs.”
Twain snorts. Dazai scowls again before asking, “What?”
“Nothing, Dazai,” the assassin likes the way his name rolls of Twain’s lips a little too much and he starts to wonder what it would sound like if it was his first name, “you can get as much as you want of that.”
He feels his stomach grumble and he crosses his arms, “Then let’s go.”
“Do I deserve it now?” Twain asks as he walks side by side with Dazai, leading the way but they both know Dazai knows his way around the house probably as much as Twain does.
“Not even close, Twain. Not even a little bit close.”
“How do I earn it then?”
“Ask that to your CCTV camera,” Dazai sees maids looking at him in the corner of his eye like it was the end of the world but he pretends he doesn’t notice, “and maybe my ex will answer for you.”
“What do you mean?”
Dazai hums, “He’s the one who hacked into your security system for me. He’s watching and listening. You should say hi. Maybe he won’t get mad if you try to be friends.”
“What, does he still have feelings for you?” Twain snickers but it dies down when the brunet doesn’t say anything, “Am I in danger or something?”
Fyodor and Dazai have a complicated relationship, to say the least. They met at work when Dazai joined the organization and they dated for half a year before they broke up, because Fyodor had to disappear—to stay low—when he quit. He only had to for three months, but he returned right when that time was up. He’s been helping Dazai with his missions for the past few months and that’s it. The conversation about their relationship never came up, but they act the same as before. Nothing much has changed, only this time they aren’t a couple—
Exes with benefits, if you will. Jealous exes with benefits would be more accurate. They don’t like seeing each other with other people.
And neither of them is one to let it slide.
“You’re a dead man walking, Twain.”
“What if you like me too much by the end of the day to let that happen?”
Dazai considers the possibility. There’s a fraction of a percent chance that it will happen. Twain is attractive, sure, but Dazai needs to be impressed. Men need to understand their place around him—especially men like Twain who get everything they want in a blink of an eye, who don’t know what it feels like to work for it.
“You can try.”
With Dazai, he’ll have to do a lot more than sweet talk.
“Here we are,” Twain says, a lopsided smile on his face, when they arrive at the dining room.
“What will you have, Mr. Twain?” a maid comes to ask, looking rather anxious at the assassin’s presence.
“Sir Twain, Mr. Twain,” Dazai mocks the redhead, “aren’t you so important, Mark?”
“Boiled crabs,” the maid looks at Twain with a puzzled expression, “and chicken. Bacon and spinach stuffed chicken. Get me some wine too.”
“I want sake,” the brunet states as the maid turns to him.
She turns back at Twain, who shrugs, “You heard him.”
“I—uh, I did, yes,” she responds, straightening her posture, “is there anything else?”
“I’ll tell you later if there is, thanks.”
“Can we go to your living room?” Dazai’s asks when the maid leaves, “I want to see what’s so special that you stay in there the most.”
“How do you know that? Have you been watching me?” Twain asks back incredulously.
“Nope,” he nonchalantly answers as they walk to the living room, “at least not me.”
“That’s reassuring,” came a dry response, “but really, it’s only because I live alone and I get bored easily.”
Dazai puffs his cheeks, thinking, and asks another question, “Why don’t you just put a television in your bedroom?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t want to.”
“You make my head hurt.”
“You make me feel short.”
“Please don’t be that type of guy,” Dazai groans, “you’re taller than me without the heels.”
“Oh no, don’t get me wrong,” they enter the living room and Twain sinks in the comfort of the sofa, “the heels are hot.”
The brunet looks away to hide his face, feeling it get hot. “You’re making this worse.”
“What?” he raises his hands in feign surrender as Dazai sits next to him, “I’m just saying.”
“You are so dead,” Dazai giggles, “so what do you do in here? Just watch and play videogames?”
“I binge watch shit and not much else. It’s not like I’m spending every day here. I guess it’s just a break from the outside.”
“Mm, you travel a lot I heard,” he says as he watches Twain turn the television on. “What are we watching?”
“Anything in particular that you want?”
“It’s cold in here,” Dazai comments, moving closer to the redhead who was rather warm for some reason. Dazai is close to shivering.
“I can get you a blanket if you want and—”
“Oda Sakunosuke,” he interrupts, “any Oda Sakunosuke film will be good.”
“You a fan?” Twain asks, his arm discreetly making its way around Dazai as he browses through the movies on the screen of his tv, “Flawless is a classic.”
“Something like that.”
Oda Sakunosuke was a friend—a very close friend at that. Keyword: was. They had a falling out when Dazai admitted to Oda that his work involved severe crimes and that he shouldn’t be around him anymore. Of course, Oda didn’t understand. He didn’t want Dazai to cut him off just like that. It was unfair. Why was he the one being left behind?
It was stupid of Dazai, really, but he couldn’t quit anymore. That’s how it works. Once you’re in, the only way left is further in. No way out. He had to avoid putting Oda in danger. And he never spoke to the man again. Prior to that is merely unspoken history. Dazai doesn’t, can’t, and shouldn’t remember. He doesn’t have the right to.
Even Fyodor, who left the organization, is still stuck in it. The only reason he was able to is because he had nothing to lose. Dazai didn’t count. He had protection from the very organization that Fyodor left from. And he’s an important asset. Fyodor quit because he was tired and nothing more. The work is draining, after all. He just doesn’t see the point when he already has enough money to last over a lifetime. Dazai has too, but he can’t afford to leave. The organization has far too many things that could be used against him.
“Mr. Twain?” a maid comes in, pushing a cart of bottles of alcohol and different glasses. She places them on the glass table in front of them, “Here are the wine and sake. The food will be coming shortly.”
Twain doesn’t say anything and just lets the movie play. Dazai is quiet too, but for a different reason. They both watch and it takes a couple of minutes before Twain pours himself a glass of wine.
“Was it true, that thing you told me in my room?” the redhead starts a conversation.
“Which one?”
“If you killed me there, it wouldn’t have mattered?”
“Do you really want to know?” Dazai sighs and pours the sake into the small glass cup so he can have a drink of his own, “It’s true—for the most part. I’ve never heard of Fitz having a target as a friend.”
“We aren’t friends.”
“Well, whatever you are, he clearly wanted you out of here. I don’t think he’d appreciate seeing you dead on the news and it’s my doing.”
“I didn’t take you for someone who would care.”
“What did you take me for then?”
“Honestly? I don’t have a solid opinion of you just yet.” That’s an understatement. Twain cannot find anything on Dazai. The only word that can describe him is enigma. Dazai is an enigma. “I was… distracted.”
“Distracted?”
“You’re called the demon prodigy.”
Dazai doesn’t like that title, but he makes Twain continue, “So?”
“So I was expecting somebody, I don’t know, terrifying? I don’t know. I really don’t. Maybe I was expecting a monster.”
“Am I not?”
“No,” he ponders, taking a drink, “you’re more like—an art.”
Dazai looks unimpressed. “Funny.”
“I’m not kidding.”
“I think you’ve watched one too many movies.”
“Maybe so,” Twain doesn’t deny it and sips another time, “but it’s almost like you came straight out of one. You’re the one who walked into my house, ready to perform an assassination in a dress. It’s sexy—”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“But I watched you,” he continues, deep in thought, “and you were having a walk in the park. It was too fucking effortless. You only had to take out the guard by the back door—and after that, it was another walk in the park. I don’t know how you just walked by and the maids never noticed.”
“Well, I am an assassin.”
“I think there’s nobody else like you—is all,” Twain shrugs. “I’ll have you know that I’ve never seen someone actually wear an outfit like that and pull it off so elegantly. And I wanted to ask, what was that song you were singing? It was pretty… dark.”
“I made it up,” Dazai answers simply and taking a drink as well.
“To tell you the truth, I was expecting a really scary, muscular guy,” the redhead says, “and I was curious so I stayed. I didn’t know the demon I hear about like a myth could be so pretty.”
Dazai knows. It’s not just because he has an ego that’s greater than the size of the planet—although that part of it—but he knows. He deceives people, his targets specifically, with his looks.
There was a time, in particular, where he had to assassinate a man named Ace. He took pride in his jewels and Dazai still has the one he gave him that night. A little trophy he keeps in his shelf.
There was one thing that Dazai hated about Ace and that’s the fact that he didn’t know how to accept a no. It was his own downfall. Dazai made sure his death was nothing short of pain. The assassin had a chat with him the first day, suggested they’d go somewhere private “tomorrow night” in the second—and in the third, he made sure to wear a short red dress to make the killing more… special. Ace assumed it was for him, but Dazai made it clear that it was for himself as the poison slowly took over his target’s body.
Men who get on his nerves must be taken out the way they should be. He’s only returning the energy they gave him, after all. Only this time he’s sending them where they belong. Hell.
Dazai will meet them there when it’s his time. And Dazai will see the fear in their eyes for a second time.
“Only a very little amount of people knows who I am or what I look like,” he keeps his eyes on Oda on the screen, “and you can guess why.”
“I’m not stupid, I know what I’m getting myself into. I know Fitzgerald. I know about your organization. I hired you. To kill my father.”
“Why did you, anyway?”
“That I can’t tell you,” Twain puffs out a chuckle, “but it’s for a good reason.”
“Like getting all his money and taking over his business, maybe?”
“Maybe.”
“Bacon and spinach stuffed chicken, sir,” a man’s voice chimes into their conversation, “and… boiled crabs?”
The brunet turns to look at the man and he’s just so done, “You have a waiter in your fucking house just for your meals? You’re so spoiled.”
As an assassin, Dazai is very perceptive. He observes and he studies people. He’s sure he didn’t imagine the waiter’s lip twitch into a smile as he puts the plates of food down.
“Look, this house is too big and I just hire people to fill it.”
“Christ,” he rolls his eyes, “make friends and have them come over.”
“I have friends and I do have them come over,” Twain rolls his eyes back. “Alright, I’ll admit. I just don’t feel like doing certain things I could get away with not doing. Cleaning and cooking, for example.”
“I don’t clean or cook either,” Dazai tells him as the waiter starts to leave, “but this is all too much. You’re lonely, Twain. I think you should get a boyfriend.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do here.”
“I’m only using you for dinner.”
“And I’m using you using me for dinner to shoot my shot.”
“Of course, you are,” he shakes his head, suppressing a laugh. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”
The luck won’t be needed to impress him. That won’t be enough for it. The luck will be needed when he fails to. When. The question of if has been long erased from the equation. He won’t tell Twain that, of course. Anything is possible. Dazai is rooting for him.
“Who’s your favorite cast in this movie?” Twain randomly asks to insert another topic, slicing the chicken on his plate. Dazai has already started eating too, clearly excited for the simple taste of boiled crabs to make his stomach full. “Aside from Sakunosuke, obviously.”
“Personally?” Dazai answers while chewing, “Sakura.”
To say he knows Sakura is downplaying it. She was a lovely kid. She and Dazai were pretty close, considering she’s Oda’s daughter. He brought her gifts and they even had a special handshake. He misses those little high-fives when he hangs around.
“I figured,” Twain replies, “I like Kosuke more though.”
Dazai knows Kosuke too, although not as much as he knows Sakura. Kosuke was energetic and loud and a very funny kid. He knew how to cheer people up, that’s for sure.
“I have a question,” the redhead says, taking a bite of his food. He swallows before continuing, “why’d you decide to become an assassin?”
“Decide?” Dazai can’t help but snicker at the word, “I didn’t decide anything. The organization set me up and put me into a situation where I couldn’t refuse to join.”
“Why did they choose you?”
“That I can’t tell you,” he repeats Twain’s words from earlier with a playful smile, “but they knew I’d be a natural so feel free to use your imagination.”
Let’s just say a filthy rich man thought Dazai would let him ridicule him for some pretty jewelry. Dazai didn’t have a lot of things, including a place to stay in—but he had his pride. He’s also smart, smarter than most people in the world even. He’s strong despite what his physique would tell you. The man was given more than a single warning. He had it coming.
“You’re just one big question mark to me.”
“I can’t say the same for you,” he titters, “but don’t worry about it, I’m unknowable on purpose. It can’t be helped.”
“I’ll figure you out one way or another, Dazai. A mystery that can never be solved isn’t a mystery.”
“I think if you’ve actually been paying attention,” he pauses from eating for a second, “then you should have already realized I’m an impossibility.”
Only two people successfully made their way through this impossibility. Oda and Fyodor. Dazai still doesn’t know how Oda managed to, but Fyodor is the same as Dazai in a way. It was easy for him. Maybe it was just luck for Oda. Nobody will ever be able to tell—not Dazai, not even Oda himself.
Dazai and Twain’s chat continued for an hour until they finished the movie. They asked each other questions that they both only answered vaguely. It was a battle of who could get the most out of the other. In the end, Dazai won—but neither of them really got the answers they were looking for.
The brunet is already sleepy, or maybe just tipsy from the alcohol, and he feels too lazy to walk back home. He doesn’t want to ask Twain to drive him. That would be sending him to his execution.
Dazai and Fyodor live together, after all.
“Are you leaving tonight?” Twain’s face is close to the assassin, so close. Too close for the one watching behind the security cameras, probably. Dazai could only suppress his amusement at the thought.
“Not if you convince me not to,” he whispers against the redhead’s lips.
“Then,” Twain’s hand makes its way to his face but he feels something his phone vibrate in his bag. He pulls away slightly to take out the phone and lets the screen light up. Twain furrows his brows, “What is it?”
The message notification pops up on the screen. Dazai checks who it was from first, but he already knows. Who else could it possibly be? The contact’s name is in bold letters above the message and he internally cackles at the sight of it. Fedya.
I’ll be there in ten.
“It’s nothing,” Dazai offhandedly answers, smashing his lips against Twain’s.
He lets himself fall on his back when the redhead kisses back harder and another notification makes his phone vibrate but he merely chuckles to himself against Twain’s lips. Twain’s hand moves to his back as the other explores his waist and the brunet tugs his shirt, lifting it until it’s fully removed.
This isn’t going to go far for sure, considering he only has ten minutes at most, but he’s going to make the most out of it.
He pants when Twain stops to give him a minute to breathe but he just wraps his legs around the redhead, making the man dive back in—the kiss deeper this time. Dazai’s hands are tightened around Twain’s hair, so firm it almost hurts. He doesn’t mind. He likes it, even.
Twain’s lips leave a trail of kisses on the assasin’s jaw as they move down and make their way to the Dazai’s neck. He presses his lips against it and Dazai’s face burns when an involuntary whine escapes his throat. Twain begins to suck on it as the brunet’s breath hitches.
“Please,” Dazai whimpers out. It’s the only word he can say and the only word he can think of. He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, but he says it again, “please.”
When the redhead felt satisfied, he returns to Dazai’s lips. The heat of the room increases each passing second and the assassin feels like he’s about to snap any second now if he doesn’t get his clothes off and—
“Mr. Twai—oh—I’m—” there’s a high-pitched voice of a woman, clearly startled, that interrupts the two, “I’m so sorry!”
Twain groans in frustration, pulling away as he runs his fingers through his hair. Dazai’s phone vibrates continuously, and he finds Fyodor’s name across the screen. He’s calling Dazai. He declines it to push a few more buttons.
The maid’s face is red when she explains herself, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Twain, but there’s a commotion outside. There’s a man outside waiting for a Dazai Osamu.”
Twain frowns, his gaze fixed on Dazai, “Who is it?”
The brunet twinkles as he sits back down. He doesn’t answer the question but his reply is enough to let Twain know, “I think I should go.”
“Let me meet him.”
“Do you have a death wish?”
“I walked into a room with you alone and closed the door behind me. I think I can handle an ex-boyfriend.”
Dazai lets out a breathy laugh, typing a text to Fyodor.
leave him alone !!
A fast reply comes, of course.
if he’s walking you outside I can’t make promises
He sighs as he stands up and types another text before turning his phone back off.
be an asshole all u want but if u kill him in front of me ur done for >:(
“Alright,” Dazai breathes out, “hurry before he comes here himself.”
When they exit the house, they see multiple guards all over the place. Their guns are pointed at the man leaning against a black exotic car, who looked nothing but unbothered with his hands in his pockets. They put their weapons down at the signal of Twain’s hand.
“Fedya,” the brunet sings Fyodor’s voice, “why are you here? I wanted to stay for the night.”
Fyodor shoots him an indifferent look but the expression on his face gets darker when his eyes shift to Twain. The redhead feels a shiver run up his spine but he only smirks cockily in response. He knows when he’s being threatened or being warned—but what Fyodor is sending him is neither a threat nor a warning. It’s a promise. Whatever it is.
The moment Dazai gets close to Fyodor, he’s tugged into a kiss. He kisses back, of course, not caring about Twain’s presence. He giggles when he notices Fyodor’s gaze still settled on Twain and he pulls away, “Actually, I take it back. Don’t be an asshole.”
“Maybe if someone didn’t bother you into having dinner with them,” Fyodor murmurs, hands dropping to Dazai’s waist.
Twain is right behind Dazai, hearing the quiet statement before he talks back right away, “Maybe if someone stopped acting like he’s still with his ex.”
“Could you repeat that?”
“Woah,” the brunet cracks up, butting in, “I’m going home.”
“Dazai,” Twain ignores Fyodor as he hands Dazai his phone, “your number?”
“What makes you think you’ve earned it?”
“The fact that you I did make you like me too much not to let your ex-boyfriend kill me?”
Dazai blinks, just now realizing that that is true. He types in his number, unable to come up with any argument against it, “Is that why you came out here with me?”
“I was trying to prove a point,” Twain replies, diverting his eyes to Fyodor when he gets his phone back with Dazai’s number on the screen, “and I did.”
“Goodnight, Dazai,” he adds before turning around to walk back inside his house.
The assassin snorts.
“Goodnight, Twain.”
“I’m going to kill him,” Fyodor mutters, opening the car door for Dazai, “I’m definitely going to kill him.”
“Can we get ice cream?” he beams, entering the car. Fyodor gets into the car as well and his eyes visibly softens when he looks at Dazai, “I want ice cream.”
“Of course we can, zolotse.”
(When Fyodor noticed the red mark on Dazai’s neck as they were heading to sleep, he made sure the assassin forgets it ever existed. There was a message notification on his phone that night.
can you come over tomorrow ? -twain
It was the last message Twain was able to send until he was found dead the next day.)